


The Rite of Falling

by hanap, Nadzieja



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Priests, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blackmail, Developing Relationship, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Priest Aziraphale (Good Omens), Priest Crowley (Good Omens), Religious Conflict, Slow Burn, let's get biblical, past Crowley/Lucifer - Freeform, slap the seal of confession on everything, there will be a crime committed at some point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29177898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadzieja/pseuds/Nadzieja
Summary: “I’m ready now,” Crowley says quietly, but he isn’t. Not really. This is hishome. But he knows better than to object now. Priesthood is a life of obedience, as he has always been told, and even twenty-odd years later, he still chafes at the bit.[In which former juvenile delinquent-turned-priest Anthony J. Crowley adjusts to life at his new parish with Father Aziraphale Fell, and comes to grips with the ghosts of the past that have returned to haunt him.]
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 190
Kudos: 137
Collections: Clerical Omens, Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang, Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Prologue: Ash Wednesday

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by [Nadzieja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadzieja/pseuds/Nadzieja)'s art ([teslatherat](https://teslatherat.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr), their gorgeous art will be embedded in this fic! 
> 
> Tags for the fic will be updated as I go along so as not to spoil too much, but I have tried to tag for all major themes here. I'll be including content warnings as needed per chapter. 
> 
> [Written for the Reverse Big Bang on the Do It With Style Events Discord server.]

For someone who has so few belongings, the room is a terrible mess. Crowley picks up one shirt, then another, feverishly calculating how he needs to pack everything to make it all fit into the two duffel bags he had been given.

He doesn’t want to leave. The seminary is the only home he’s known for the past twenty-eight years. But he’s been called, and so he must go.

He’d left the packing until the last minute, hoping that there might be a change in plans. But his train is leaving in three hours, and all the things in the world that he owns are in unwonted disarray everywhere.

He runs his fingers through his short hair in dismay and exhales sharply. _You_ _’re being a child_ , he scolds himself sternly, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows. But still, every muscle in his body resists. He’s never been very good at obeying higher authority. He sinks down onto the worn mattress and buries his face in his hands. He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t.

There’s a soft clacking in the hallway, and Crowley immediately gets to his feet, starting to panic. He begins folding trousers haphazardly, piling them on top of one another on the bed.

“Anthony.”

Crowley turns quickly, trying not to look guilty. “Hello, Father.”

Father Rafael stands stooped in the doorway, leaning heavily on his walking cane. Crowley rushes to help him in, hastily picking up the pile of clerical shirts on the chair so that the elderly priest can sit down. He gives Crowley a look that he’s all too familiar with—Father Rafael’s green eyes are clouded with age now, but still as sharp as ever when it comes to seeing through every front Crowley attempts to hide behind.

“Just, erm, finishing up on my packing,” Crowley says hurriedly, dropping the shirts on the desk.

“Hmm,” Father Raphael says, glancing pointedly at the mess of Crowley’s belongings and the two empty bags on the floor. “I see.”

Crowley clears his throat and resumes folding his clothing, the heat creeping up into his face. The priest chuckles dryly.

“How are you feeling, Anthony?”

—

“Fine,” Crowley mutters, ducking his head into his jumper to avoid looking up at the priest who’s towering over him, trying in vain not to be intimidated. He can feel the priest’s clear green eyes assessing him intently. Probably wondering if Crowley was going to steal anything, he thinks, and rolls his eyes. Nothing worth taking from this place anyway.

“Have you had anything to eat today?”

Crowley shakes his head mutely without looking up. He’s shivering so hard his teeth are chattering. His sweater is soaked through from the rain. He watches as the priest stokes the fire, adds another log, pulls a little stool closer to the hearth.

“Why don’t you sit down?” The priest gestures at the stool. “You must be freezing.”

“M’not,” Crowley says automatically, dropping his gaze to his drenched shoes. A small puddle has formed around his feet. “M’fine.”

The priest sighs. “Sit.”

Crowley obeys, just to make him shut up.

“Wait here for a moment.”

There’s a click as the door shuts, and Crowley looks behind his shoulder surreptitiously to make sure that the priest is gone. He closes his eyes and lifts his hands towards the fire, as close as he can get without burning himself. The heat is a relief after hours of standing in the cold under the tiny awning of a church window, waiting for the priest to leave. He sighs softly, basking in the warmth of the fire.

His eyes fly open at the sound of the doorknob turning and he snatches his hands back into his lap, every muscle of his body tensing. He hears footsteps coming up behind him, and to his surprise, a soft cloth falls on his head. A… towel? He's puzzled.

“Dry yourself off,” the priest says. “I'm going to get dinner ready.”

Crowley looks up quickly and opens his mouth to object—he doesn't need food, he wants to say, he doesn't need anything, all he needs right now is to leave—but to his surprise, a hand settles on top of his head and begins rubbing his hair dry.

A noise of protest leaves his throat. “I can do it myself.”

“Good,” the priest says with finality. “You better be dry by the time I come back.”

Too late, Crowley realises he's been tricked—but before he can say anything, the door has closed and he's alone again.

Tentatively, he rubs the towel over his hair, unused to its softness. After a few minutes he gets up and opens the door just a crack to peer outside. He sees the priest's reflection in the hallway window, puttering around in the kitchen. There’s the familiar sound of a knife on a chopping board.

Crowley shuts the door quietly and strips himself of his soaked clothes as quickly as he can, laying them down before the fire, shivering for a moment at the searing heat on his bare skin. He sits on the floor next to his clothes, clad in only his pants, and wraps his arms around himself tightly. Slowly, he rests his chin on his forearms, his body relaxing into the comfort of the fire.

Suddenly, a gentle rap on the door rouses Crowley—he’s dozed off without knowing it. He scrambles his clothes back on as fast as he can, now significantly drier than they had been, and hurries out into the hallway and into the kitchen where the little table is set for two. Crowley’s eyes widen. Boiled potatoes, French beans, and fish cooked in butter and garlic. It smells so delicious that Crowley feels almost faint for a moment.

The priest says nothing. He takes a seat, gesturing at the chair across from him. Crowley sits warily on the edge of the chair, watching the priest through narrowed eyes as he serves Crowley first, piling Crowley's plate high with most of the food before helping himself. Crowley's mouth waters as he stares down at the plate. It's been so long since he's had a proper meal.

“I hope you don't mind if I say grace,” the priest says. Crowley shakes his head, though inwardly he hopes the priest won't ask him to join him. But it seems the priest has no such expectations. He simply bows his head and shuts his eyes, crossing himself. “Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord,” he murmurs quietly before crossing himself again. “Amen.” He looks up at Crowley. “Eat up, then. I’m sure you’re hungry.”

Crowley shakes his head, but his stomach rumbles loudly enough to be audible. He glances up guiltily, but the priest only picks up his fork and spears a piece of potato, putting it into his mouth. Crowley cautiously picks up his cutlery, and the moment the salt and oil from the fish hit his tongue, he nearly groans aloud. It’s delicious beyond words, and Crowley is suddenly ravenous. The priest laughs and tells him to slow down, but Crowley can’t seem to stop himself from shovelling as much food into his mouth as it can hold, barely even pausing to chew.

The priest eats at a more leisurely pace, munching thoughtfully as he watches Crowley, who, for once, doesn’t care that he’s being stared at. He finally slows down after demolishing three-quarters of the mound of food on his plate.

“How about you tell me your name?”

“Why?” Crowley asks immediately, his mouth half-full, looking at the priest suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. His heart is pounding in his chest. To be caught stealing from the collection plate—a hot wave of shame surges through him, even as he glares at the priest. “Going to call the police on me, aren’t you?”

“Well, no,” the priest says mildly. “That would be a rather poor way to treat a guest in my own house, don’t you think?”

Crowley flushes with embarrassment, looking down at his plate. He has manners, he’s not an _animal—_ he clenches his jaw in frustration and hangs his head. “Crowley,” he mutters. “Anthony J. Crowley.”

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Anthony.” The priest looks at him intently, the stern lines of his careworn face relaxing slightly. “I’m Rafael. As you know, I’m one of the priests at the seminary.”

Unsure of what to say, Crowley just nods.

“How old are you, Anthony?”

“Twenty,” Crowley lies confidently. He’s practised this one enough the past year that it rolls off his tongue easily. He’s even got the fake ID cards to prove it.

The priest—Father Rafael, Crowley’s mind corrects himself automatically—gazes at Crowley with something like a twinkle in his eye. “Is that so?”

“Sure it is,” Crowley says with a shrug.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

Crowley shakes his head. No point lying about that. A priest would know the people in his parish, and he’s clearly a stranger.

“Are you by yourself?”

 _No,_ Crowley almost says, but he bites his tongue. He can’t give Luke away. This could be an elaborate trap, and he can’t risk it—Luke can’t afford to get caught again, not now when he’s managed to avoid the authorities for so long. Crowley would give himself up first before he’d let that happen.

 _Luke_ _…_ the worry has been simmering in Crowley’s stomach for weeks now, ever since Luke didn’t show up when they’d planned to meet in the graveyard behind the church. Crowley had decided to go ahead with their plan on his own, but he was stupid not to wait for Luke, robberies need at least two people to ensure success, one to keep watch and one to—

“Are you going to tell me what happened there?” Father Rafael gestures to Crowley’s cheek, where he knows a bruise must already be blooming, and Crowley’s hands ball up into fists against his knees as he shakes his head. Suddenly, he wishes he still had his sunglasses. He looks back down at his nearly empty plate, his appetite suddenly gone.

Father Rafael says nothing, but when Crowley’s eyes dart up at him, his dark eyebrows have drawn themselves together. He pushes his chair back and Crowley flinches at the harsh scraping sound, but he only heads for the refrigerator. Crowley hears a clatter, then the clink of ice. A bundled-up towel is set down in front of him, and Crowley looks up at the priest, confused. “What’s this?”

“Ice. For…” Father Rafael points to his own cheek.

“Oh.” Crowley is sorely lost. This man has allowed him into his house, let him sit by the fire, fed him, and now he’s giving him ice for his face? Hesitantly, he picks up the bundle and presses it to his cheek. He hisses in pain— the lump is more tender than he thought, though at least the skin hadn’t split this time.

“Better?”

Crowley nods wordlessly. He doesn’t want to seem ungrateful, but the words are stuck somewhere in the vicinity of the lump forming in his throat.

“You’ll forgive me for saying so, Anthony,” Father Rafael says brusquely. “You look like you’ve been living rough.”

A huff of laughter leaves Crowley’s throat, the sound caustic even to his own ears. “You could say that, yeah.”

“Hmm,” Father Rafael says noncommittally. “Do you have someplace to go?”

Crowley’s suddenly horrified at the way the tears prick at his eyes. He turns his face away. He grits his teeth, forcing the emotion down, and shakes his head minutely. He’s exhausted to the bone from running away, barely surviving from one day to the next, stealing what he can and sleeping in the shelter of doorways at night. Maybe prison wouldn’t be so bad compared to this, he thinks to himself dimly. He can’t do this. Not without Luke.

“Well, then.” Father Rafael sighs, leaning back into his chair. “How do you feel about applying for the seminary?”

“Seminary?” Crowley nearly chokes. “ _Me?_ _”_

“I don’t see anyone else in here,” Father Rafael says, raising an eyebrow. “I know for a fact it’s better than prison, you know.” Crowley’s head jerks up in shock, but the priest keeps speaking. “You’re Catholic?”

Crowley’s hand comes up to his throat. In his haste to get dressed, he’d neglected to tuck his scapular under his clothes. He clutches at it hard and stuffs it down his sweater, mortified. “Not anymore,” he mutters.

—

“Why do you still wear these?”

Crowley looks up from where he’s trying to wrestle an extra sweater into the already overflowing duffel bag. Father Rafael, with a quizzical look on his wrinkled face, holds up a pair of battered sunglasses, a pair of slightly bent aviators with dark lenses.

“I don’t anymore. Haven’t for a while. Not that particular pair, at least.” A smile quirks up a corner of Crowley’s mouth. “They were from a long time ago, when I was younger.”

—

“You think you’re cool for wearing sunglasses indoors or something?” Ligur pushes a finger into Anthony’s chest. “You really think you’re all that, don’t you?”

Anthony shakes his head frantically. “No, no, it’s not that, I swear –”

“Think he might look better without them, actually.” Hastur sidles beside Ligur with a snide grin.

Anthony’s blood is cold as ice in his veins. Just his luck to get stuck at school with the worst of them. He looks around surreptitiously, but they’re all alone on the playing field. “Listen,” he says with false cheer. “You really don’t want to do that.”

“Why not? Afraid we’ll see your snake eyes?” Ligur snickers as Crowley freezes, the familiar sick wave of shame washing over him. “Isn’t that why you’re always wearing them?”

Hastur steps forward menacingly. “Go on, kid. The sooner you hand those over, the sooner we’ll let you go home.”

Crowley thinks fast. He needs to keep talking if he wants to get out of here with both glasses and dignity intact. “Yeah, look, guys. I’m flattered you like them so much, but I really can’t take them off.”

“That’s not going to work a second time,” Hastur warns, taking another step. “Either you take them off and hand them over now, or we’ll do it for you.”

Anthony sighs, pretending to give up. “Alright, fine. I’ll take them off.” He holds out his hands placatingly. “You have to close your eyes for a bit though. Count to ten.”

“Why?” Ligur asks suspiciously.

“So that you can get the full effect of my snake eyes.” Anthony smirks, but his heart is pounding in his chest. He can’t bear the thought of them finding out why he wears glasses to begin with. He’s going to have to hope this little bluff will work long enough to give him a chance to run—

“Oi!”

Startled, Anthony turns sharply and sees another boy slouching out of the building, bag slung over his shoulder carelessly.

“Oh, fuck,” Hastur curses under his breath. “It’s Luke. We better get out of here.” He and Ligur scamper out of the gate so quickly that Anthony barely has any time to react before the newcomer grabs him by the collar.

Anthony recognises him now—Lucas Aaron, two years ahead of him at school. A star student, but with a temper like fire. “Hastur and Ligur giving you a hard time?”

His dark eyes are piercing, and Anthony holds his hands up, suddenly afraid. “No, no. S’nothing, really.”

“Hm.” He takes one more critical look before letting go. To Anthony’s shock, he leans forward and lifts Anthony’s glasses off his face.

Anthony stands frozen, his eyes completely exposed—one eye is a muddy alloy of green and blue, but the other is a sickly shade of yellow, two tiny oblong pupils atop of each other, forming a black slit down the centre of the pupil.

“So it’s true.”

“What?” Anthony says defensively, looking down at his trainers, the heat rising to his cheeks. He knows the whispers that have followed him all his life. Cursed from birth with the eye of a demon. He grabs his sunglasses back from the other boy’s grasp, jams them hard onto his face.

“Why do you hide them?”

“Wouldn’t you?” Anthony snaps.

“Aww, hey. I think they’re cool.” Hands reach out, straightening Anthony’s shirt. “You can call me Luke,” he says, a smile on his face that might have been called rueful if it hadn’t looked utterly wicked, curled up at one corner the way it is.

“Well, they aren’t.” Anthony swallows hard. His heart is making an odd skittering motion in his chest. He thinks dimly that he might understand why Luke gets away with making so much trouble for the teachers all the time. “And, er. I’m Anthony.”

“What’s wrong with them?” Luke’s watching him so intently that Anthony almost wishes he would look away. Almost.

“I was born like this,” Anthony says at last, resigning himself to having to explain _yet again._ “Medical condition. Long story.”

“Good thing we’ve got plenty of time, eh?” Luke laughs and leans over to grab Anthony’s bag from him, ignoring Anthony’s protests. “Come on, then.”

—

“We could have gotten it treated, you know.” Father Rafael looks up at Crowley with a frown.

“No,” Crowley says, softly but firmly. “You know as well as I do the state of the seminary’s finances these past few years. Besides, it doesn’t really matter. My eyesight could be worse than it is.”

The elderly priest’s sigh is almost regretful, and Crowley aches to hear it. He wishes he could explain to this man just how much he owes him. Nothing short of his whole life, in fact. But Crowley’s never had the words for these things. Instead, he turns away, pretending to double-check that he hasn’t left anything behind in his tiny closet.

“I came by to give you this,” Father Rafael says gruffly.

Crowley stuffs an errant sock into the second duffel bag before he turns to face him. “What is it? I—oh.”

Father Rafael is holding a worn Bible, bound in black leather that’s peeling away in spots, its pages dog-eared and slightly wrinkled, as though it had gotten wet at some point. Crowley’s chest constricts at the sight of it.

“I thought you might want it back,” Father Rafael says softly. “A remembrance of sorts.”

Crowley looks away. “I dunno if I want to take it with me,” he says carefully.

“No, Anthony.” Father Rafael pushes himself up on his cane and presses the Bible into Crowley’s hands even as he makes stilted noises of resistance. “I insist.”

Crowley can feel his heart in his throat as he lets the Bible fall open in his palms, the cracked spine opening to reveal an old photo tucked in its yellowing pages. He holds the photo out to Father Rafael, who takes it gently in both hands. For a moment, the priest places the photo down in his lap, reaching for the spectacles tucked into the front of his shirt. He puts them on carefully before picking up the photo and examining it.

Father Rafael has seen this before, and even now, after so many years, Crowley knows the image like the back of his hand, burned permanently into his mind. A photo of himself and his mother at his first communion, but the photo is badly damaged, wrinkled along one side after getting waterlogged. There’s nearly nothing left of his mother’s face but the vaguest outline, the colours of her features completely washed away, but the image of himself as a child in her lap is untouched, clear as the day it was taken.

—

Tony holds the mass-book carefully. It’s the first time he’s been allowed to hold one during mass, and it feels larger than he expected in his small palms.

He knows how to read now, better than the grownups think he can, and follows along quietly, his finger moving along the lines as the priest speaks. The cathedral is dark, the altar stripped of its usual beautiful vestments. His mother guides him to his knees on the cushioned kneeler next to her. He clasps his hands solemnly and bows his head.

But his head jerks up suddenly the moment the first notes of the choir’s song echo through the church. Now that everyone is kneeling, he has a clear view of the front where the choir stands, and he watches with avid fascination, his lips parted in amazement. He knows this hymn, though he’s never heard it sung during mass before. Every note is clear as a bell, a haunting melody filling the cathedral to the very corners of the high ceiling. In the darkened hall, he feels suddenly like he’s floating, and he closes his eyes as the music echoes through the cavern of its walls.

The flawless harmony sends a shiver down Tony’s back. Almost before he knows it, he opens his mouth and begins to sing. His mother turns her head, gazing at him with a look on her face that he’s never seen before, her eyebrows lifted in surprise and what feels to him like approval.

—

“You were quite the angel, weren’t you?” Father Rafael chuckles. “I could never have guessed.”

“That was a long time ago.” Crowley takes the photo back and tucks it in between the Bible’s pages without looking at it.

“We never change as much as we think we do, you know.” He flicks a knowing look in Crowley’s direction. “Now, come. I don’t want you to be late.”

“Father, when have I _ever_ been late?” Crowley protests.

“1997,” Father Rafael says with unerring confidence. “You didn’t wake up for dawn mass. A second time in 2001. In 2002, you were two minutes late for evening prayer. In 2004—”

“I didn’t need a litany of my tardiness, thank you,” Crowley mutters.

Father Rafael laughs, the grizzled crags of his face revealing a surprisingly bright smile. “You asked.”

“I’m ready now,” Crowley says quietly, but he isn’t. He wants to stay here and work at the seminary with Father Rafael and his brothers, just as he has always done. This is his _home._ But he knows better than to object now. Priesthood is a life of obedience, as he has always been told, and even twenty-odd years later, he still chafes at the bit. He sighs, hefting the straps of his bags onto his shoulders.

Crowley helps Father Rafael to his feet and offers him his arm, which the priest refuses, choosing instead to lean on his walking cane. It makes Crowley smile to see it—he had bought it for Father Rafael himself for his eightieth birthday, and for all Father Rafael had acted so brusque, Crowley knew he had been pleased. They set off down the hallway together, heading to the entrance of the seminary where there's a car waiting to take Crowley to the train station.

For a moment, Crowley pauses, taking one last look at the place that has offered him sanctuary for so long. The weight of the impending separation is so thick in the air that it’s nearly tangible. 

“I’ll come and visit,” Crowley says suddenly, and his face immediately burns as the heat rises to his face. Bless his _damned_ complexion. “When I can.”

A smile hovers at the corner of Father Rafael’s lips. “You would always be welcome here. You know that.” But he pauses, and there’s a soft exhale before he speaks again. “But you must cleave to your parish, Anthony.”

Crowley nods. He’s heard this before. Many, many times before. “But still… when I can.”

They’re at the entrance of the seminary now, and Crowley can see the black car idling outside, waiting for him. He had asked not to have anyone come and see him off. It’s hard enough as it is. Hesitantly, he takes off his sunglasses, tucks them carefully away into a pocket of his cassock. He owes Father Rafael the courtesy of seeing him properly.

But Father Rafael’s arms envelop Crowley in their warmth unexpectedly, and he’s burying his face in the priest’s shoulder, and suddenly he’s sixteen again, and he’s just run away from home—he wraps his arms around the frail body, his arms tightening in dread. Once upon a time, Crowley would have only come up to Father Rafael’s chest. Father Rafael, once so strongly built, now so frail and bent in his old age.

“I’ll see you again soon,” Crowley promises, his throat tight.

Father Rafael’s arms tighten around him for a moment before he lets go, pulling away to hold Crowley by the shoulders with his veined, knotted hands. His gaze sweeps across Crowley’s face one last time, sharp and sombre.

“ _Que Dios te bendiga,_ _”_ he says softly, and lets Crowley go. “May the Lord be with you, my boy.”

Crowley bows his head under the benediction. “And with you, Father.”

He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t. He _doesn_ _’t._

But he turns and walks out the seminary doors, the weight of his bags like chains pulling him down, and he doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We meet Aziraphale next chapter! ♥️
> 
> So many people to thank for helping me along with this chapter! First of all, [Nadzieja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadzieja/pseuds/Nadzieja) for all the spectacular art and the ideas and the FRIENDSHIP. Check out their [Tumblr](https://teslatherat.tumblr.com/) here!
> 
> Thank you also to [LeilaKalomi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeilaKalomi/pseuds/LeilaKalomi) for being such a wonderful beta, [TawnyOwl95](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95) for the Britpicking and the cheering, [Saretton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saretton/pseuds/saretton), who brainstormed with me months before this fic ever came to life, and finally [NaroMoreau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau) and [Jenanigans1207](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenanigans1207/pseuds/Jenanigans1207) for being my rock in this storm!


	2. Palm Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Y-you must be the new priest,” Aziraphale stammers. He can feel the man’s eyes on him, looking at him curiously. “Welcome to the parish, Father…”
> 
> “Crowley,” he drawls over the din of the rain, finally managing to get the trunk of the car open with an almighty upwards heave. He lifts two duffel bags out, pulls a strap onto each shoulder. “You must be the old priest.”
> 
> Aziraphale splutters for a moment—he’s hardly _old_ , he only turned forty last month—before he looks up and sees a smile curling on Father Crowley’s lips. The rain has quenched the red of his hair now, turning it nearly black as drops of water trickle down his temples.
> 
> Goodness, Aziraphale thinks vaguely, this priest would certainly get the women flocking to church on Sundays.

In the hour before mass begins, Aziraphale always feels a little off-balance. He doesn’t know if it’s the fast that’s making him lightheaded or the nerves that come before delivering a homily. He sits alone in the vestry, taking deep, measured breaths. His fingers twist together in his lap as he tries to concentrate, tries not to think about all the work still waiting for him once the mass ends. The mountain of paperwork he has to sign. The report he has to make to Archbishop Gabriel. Aziraphale’s stomach clenches at the thought.

Sweat is beginning to bead along his forehead as he adjusts his alb, trying to ease the discomfort of the heat. It’s unseasonably humid, but when he looks out the window, the sky is a gradient of dismal greys, clouds dark and heavy with foreboding—a storm clearly looming on the horizon. He heaves a sigh, mopping at his damp forehead and neck with his favourite tartan handkerchief. The rain will fall any minute now and the humidity will ease. He just has to endure it a little longer.

To distract himself, he recites the Bible verses for his homily from memory, his eyes fixed on the crucifix mounted on the wall _. But the serpent said to the woman,_ _“You will not die. For God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”_

The clock chimes suddenly and Aziraphale looks up in surprise. The mass would be beginning soon. He gets up and double-checks the vestments they have set out for him – the chasuble and stole, the cincture to be knotted around his waist.

There is a clap of thunder from outside, and Aziraphale is forced to turn on another light to compensate for the darkness of the sky. He tries not to think of what the archbishop would have to say to him about the parish and its expenses at the end of the month, but his hands are pulling nervously at the sleeve of his white robe.

A sharp bolt of lightning illuminates the room, and Aziraphale sees his own pale face in the glass, highlighted by the burst of light. There’s another clap of thunder as the rain begins to fall in earnest outside, a loud _tap-tap-tap_ beating a tattoo against the glass of the window and the roof.

Aziraphale turns to the window to close the shutters, but as he looks out, a taxi pulls up in the driveway. A man clad in black climbs out despite the pouring rain, his bright red hair like a flame in the storm. It puzzles Aziraphale—doesn’t he have an umbrella?

He watches the man run to the back of the taxi, trying to open the boot, but to no avail. He struggles with it for a few seconds longer, enough that he’s quite drenched by the rain.

The tell-tale flash of a clerical collar catches Aziraphale’s eye. _Oh no—_ Aziraphale remembers with a start that the new priest is supposed to arrive today, and he’s completely forgotten in the wake of all his worrying. Almost before he knows it, he’s grabbed a white umbrella from the rack in the corner, his robe fluttering around him as he runs down the enormous staircase and out the door.

It takes Aziraphale a few seconds to get the umbrella open, but as soon as he does, he hurries across the street, umbrella held aloft in the rain until he finally reaches the car, holding the umbrella above the man’s head. The priest scrubs his hand across his face, blinking the moisture out of his eyes, before he turns and notices Aziraphale there.

_Oh._

Aziraphale’s breath leaves his mouth in a soft gasp, his words caught in his throat at the sight of the man’s eyes – the left eye is a shade of brown so light that it was nearly golden, the right eye a swirl of hazel and blue and green. Too late, he realises that he’s been staring too long, and he drops his gaze, feeling the heat creeping up the back of his neck.

“Y-you must be the new priest,” Aziraphale stammers. He can feel the man’s eyes on him, looking at him curiously. “Welcome to the parish, Father…”

“Crowley,” he drawls over the din of the rain, finally managing to get the trunk of the car open with an almighty upwards heave. He lifts two duffel bags out, pulls a strap onto each shoulder. “You must be the old priest.”

Aziraphale splutters for a moment—he’s hardly _old,_ he only turned forty last month—before he looks up and sees a smile curling on Father Crowley’s lips. The rain has quenched the red of his hair now, turning it nearly black as drops of water trickle down his temples.

Goodness, Aziraphale thinks vaguely, this priest would certainly get the women flocking to church on Sundays.

“A guardian angel, I’m sure,” Father Crowley continues, still smirking. “Come to save me from this terrible weather, then?”

“I, erm—” Why on earth was Aziraphale so _flustered?_ “We’d better head inside, Father Crowley.”

“Just Crowley is fine,” he says firmly, and turns to slam the boot shut before following Aziraphale into the church, their shoulders brushing under the umbrella. Aziraphale ushers Father Crowley—no, he asked to be called only Crowley—under the shade of the porch as he shakes the umbrella free of water, carefully rolling it shut.

“Your alb’s all wet,” Crowley says. Aziraphale looks down at his robe, and only then does he register the mud-spattered hem, the right side soaked from the way he’d held the umbrella over Crowley, heedless of his own clothes.

Crowley’s head jerks up as the bells heralding the mass begin to toll. His mouth opens as though he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out but a strangled noise.

“What’s the matter?” Aziraphale asks, confused by the look on Crowley’s face.

“There’s a mass today.”

“In fifteen minutes, yes.”

“A mass that you’re holding.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale doesn’t quite understand where this is going. “What about it?”

Crowley looks up at him, and for a moment, Aziraphale sees the veil of the new priest’s insouciance shift in the way his eyes widen and his lips part, vulnerable just for a split second. It’s only a moment before the shutters come back down, and Crowley’s got that smirk back on his face, an eyebrow lifted in disbelief. “You’re going to hold mass? Looking like that?”

Aziraphale looks at his robe ruefully once more. “I suppose I should go change. And so should you,” he says quickly, realising that Crowley is soaked to the skin. “You’d better come with me.”

A thin shoulder lifts and drops in a half-shrug as Crowley trails down the hallway behind Aziraphale, his footsteps nearly silent. For some reason, as Aziraphale pushes the door open to the vestry, Crowley hesitates.

“Can’t go in there now.” Crowley gestures at his dripping clothes by way of explanation.

“Never mind,” Aziraphale says a trifle testily—the mass will be starting soon, he can already hear people arriving, cars pulling up in the driveway. It wouldn’t do for Gabriel to hear about him starting mass late, not on top of everything else he has to deal with. “We can always clean it up afterwards.”

Crowley quirks an eyebrow and follows him inside, but Aziraphale realises that the vestry is _tiny,_ and the silence after the door shuts is deafening. He sighs internally, resigning himself to the loss of his usual last-minute routines to calm his nerves before mass begins. There’s a small white towel hanging from one of the cabinets, and he hands it to Crowley quickly so that he can dry off a little, though it’s woefully lacking considering how drenched he is.

“Here, this will do for now. You should get changed—you’ll catch your death of cold.”

A short bark of laughter leaves Crowley’s lips. “I’ve had my fair share of standing in the rain. If it were going to kill me, it would have by now.” Nevertheless, he begins to rub the towel over his hair, sending tiny droplets flying everywhere.

Aziraphale tries not to think about the fact that he’s never been in the vestry with another person before. He turns away, feeling somewhat hot, and takes off his alb. For a moment, he examines the mud-stained edges remorsefully before a movement catches his eye.

He sees Crowley, back turned as he pulls off his black clerical shirt, leaving him in only a sleeveless undershirt. The material clings to him like a second skin, thin enough that Aziraphale can make out the outline of an enormous tattoo curving its way around Crowley’s surprisingly well-defined torso, coiling down a toned shoulder and part of his bicep. He tugs his undershirt off, revealing the tattoo in its entirety.

Was that… a _snake?_

Aziraphale realises he’s staring and turns away quickly, fussing at his collar, wondering why it was still so oddly warm despite the rain. He turns to the sink and begins to wash his hands, keeping his eyes from the mirror.

 _Give virtue to my hands, O Lord_ , and he takes a spare alb from the rack and dons it carefully, _cleanse me and purify my heart,_ meticulously tying the cincture around his waist, _gird me,_ keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his hands, determined to give Crowley a modicum of privacy even in this cramped space.

It takes him a few tries to get the cincture knotted properly today—the sound of rustling clothes behind him is distracting. He lifts the chasuble from the hanger and tries to drape it evenly over his shoulders by touch alone, not wanting to look at the mirror and inadvertently catch another glimpse of something he shouldn’t be looking at in its reflection.

_Grant that I may be able to bear it._

Aziraphale turns to reach for the stole on the last hanger, but he finds it in Crowley’s hands instead.

Somewhere in the back of Aziraphale’s mind, he registers that Crowley’s changed into more casual clothes, a dark grey pullover and black jeans. It looks good on him, Aziraphale thinks dimly. Like this, Crowley looks younger somehow, more relaxed.

“Let me,” Crowley says, looking down at the shining green cloth in his hands. Aziraphale freezes as he arranges the stole around Aziraphale’s neck with gentle fingers, hardly able to draw breath as Crowley begins to murmur. “Return to me, O Lord, the stole of immortality, and although I, unworthy, approach Thy sacred mystery, grant to me, nevertheless…

“Everlasting joy,” Aziraphale finishes, his voice faint, the rote prayer suddenly transformed into a benediction unlike any he’s ever received before. He clears his throat and tries to regain his composure. He feels as though something in his very core has been shaken loose. “That was very kind of you,” he says, trying to keep his voice even.

Crowley makes a dismissive noise and runs a hand through his still-damp hair. “S’nothing, Father.”

Only then did Aziraphale realise he hadn’t even introduced himself. “Fell,” he says quickly. “My name is Aziraphale Fell.”

“Father Fell.” Crowley raises his eyebrows. “Interesting first name. Angelic in every way, then?”

“I… I was named for an angel, yes.” Aziraphale’s fingers worry at the cincture’s knot at his waist. He’s too nervous for the homily he’s about to deliver to acknowledge Crowley’s jab. “The mass will be starting soon. I should really…”

Crowley inclines his head. “Later, then.”

“Yes, later,” Aziraphale says, and wonders why it feels like a promise has slipped from his lips. “I do apologise for the wait… we didn’t think you would be arriving until after the mass. I can take you around and introduce you. Or you can get settled in first, whichever you prefer.”

“Settled in first, I think. M’not exactly presentable.”

Aziraphale tries for a smile, but he doesn’t quite succeed. “If you’ll excuse me, then.” He walks past Crowley to the vestry door.

“See you, angel.”

A rush of heat floods Aziraphale’s face, but he elects to say nothing. His feet move automatically—the congregation must already be waiting, and through the haze of nerves he considers the possibility that his life at the parish is about to be drastically changed by this new arrival.

Somewhere in the middle of the choir singing the Kyrie, he spots a familiar figure in the furthest pew, tall and languid, the striking red hair like a beacon cutting through Aziraphale’s anxiety. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly.

Perhaps a change wouldn’t be so bad.

—

Aziraphale opens the door to the rectory for Crowley and lets him enter the house first, watches him looking around with his eyebrows raised.

“It’s not much,” Aziraphale says, suddenly defensive. “Not compared to where you’ve come from.” He’d made an effort to clear some of his things, knowing how their humble rectory must appear to this priest who had come from a seminary known for its relative comfort and luxury, though there honestly isn’t much of either in this vocation. “I’ve moved some of my books into the church library too, so that you’d have a little more room.”

He stops short, realising how ridiculous it sounds. All Crowley has with him are two duffel bags, after all. A priest who abides by his vow of poverty. Aziraphale feels the heat spreading across his neck, tries not to think of the little collection of treasures hidden in a drawer of his dresser. A dragon’s hoard. If Gabriel ever found out—

“It’s quite nice, actually,” Crowley says, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Y’know… homey.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale can’t help but beam at the unexpected comment. That’s praise, isn’t it? He’d like to think so. “Well, seeing as this is your home now too, I’m glad you feel that way.”

Crowley says nothing, only nods. Aziraphale is slightly discomfited at the lack of a response, especially with Crowley’s eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. The man wears sunglasses indoors. Something to do with his eyes, perhaps?

Aziraphale shakes off the thought, remembering he was in the middle of showing the new priest around his quarters.

“The kitchen’s right over here,” Aziraphale says, leading Crowley into the little room that served as both kitchen and dining room—there’s a small table pushed up against the wall with only one stool. Aziraphale clears his throat, fervently hoping Crowley hasn’t noticed this little detail, and resolves to rectify it immediately. “Plates are here, glasses in here, cutlery and knives and things for cooking over in this drawer.” He opens drawers and cabinets so that Crowley knows where to find them, though there isn’t a lot to show, really. Aziraphale clears his throat. “I’m not much of a cook,” he admits.

“You’re in luck then,” Crowley says dryly, the ghost of a smile hovering on his lips.

“Oh… oh.” Aziraphale isn’t sure what to make of that. He decides it might be best to let it pass. “We’ve got a few pots and pans over here, in this cabinet. The kettle, of course—oh, dear, how dreadfully rude of me not to offer you anything. Would you like some tea?”

Crowley shakes his head. “More of a coffee drinker myself.”

That’s a shame. Aziraphale isn’t even certain if he still has any coffee on hand. “I’ll pop by the shops and pick some up later then.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Crowley says. His sunglasses have slipped a little down the bridge of his nose, enough to give Aziraphale a glimpse of his expression—the lines around Crowley’s eyes are taut, belying the carelessness of his tone. “Might turn in early, actually. If it’s all the same to you.”

“Oh, of course. I’m sure you must be exhausted.” Aziraphale tries to smile. “Welcome to the parish, Crowley.”

There’s a split second of silence before Crowley jerks his head in acknowledgment. “Thanks,” he says quietly, not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes, and the door shuts behind him without another word.

—

The next few days are a blur of getting the new priest settled in. He gets on well enough with the parish staff, though he seems rather quiet at the best of times, and downright taciturn at others. Even Aziraphale’s own efforts at making conversation are rebuffed by Crowley bidding him good night and withdrawing to his bedroom rather than joining Aziraphale for an evening meal. He watches Crowley out of the corner of his eye as he slips into the kitchen for a cup of coffee in the mornings before ducking out quickly after a muttered _good morning_. Aziraphale always feels strangely bereft, as though Crowley’s absence is more conspicuous than his presence.

He tries not to be upset by this. The parish staff tend to gossip shamelessly, and he has already been told everything they’ve managed to hear about the new priest— _Crowley,_ Aziraphale corrects himself automatically—who had been rather a bit of a mystery even in his former seminary, where he had been in charge of the seminary’s finances. He had lived there nearly all of his life, never leaving even once after being ordained, practically sequestered until he had been given this assignment.

Beyond that, there isn’t much else.

Aziraphale looks at the closed door of Crowley’s bedroom, tells himself it will be alright. The man is still trying to adjust to his new life, that’s all. Far be it for Aziraphale to intrude on his privacy. He chews on the inside of his cheek and wonders what he’s going to do with the extra food he ordered for dinner in the hope that he might get Crowley to join him.

(Crowley finds a covered dish on the tiny dining table when he comes out for a glass of water later that night. It’s a simple meal—steamed vegetables, roast chicken, gravy. He’s horrified at the way his throat tightens. He wants to be here. He does. But it’s not _home_.)

The next morning, Aziraphale finds the dish he left on the table washed and neatly put away. In its place is a small box of croissants from the bakery down the road, so fresh that they’re still warm.

This is how they communicate the first week. A bag of freshly-ground coffee beans to say _thank you._ A small container of strawberries to say _don_ _’t mention it_. After several attempts that end in disastrous failures, Aziraphale manages a pan of scrambled eggs that’s passable even by his standards. He leaves a plate on the table for Crowley that morning, and when he comes home that evening, he’s surprised to hear a flurry of movement before there’s a distant bang of a door slamming shut.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale calls out tentatively.

There’s no answer, but there is a faintly appealing aroma lingering in the air that makes his stomach rumble. In the kitchen, he finds a dish of pasta on the table. His mouth waters at the tangy scent of tomatoes and herbs. There are smears of sauce on the table, as though the food had been hastily plated by a certain red-haired priest before he had escaped into the solitude of his room. Aziraphale stifles a laugh, but he’s more touched by the gesture than even he would like to admit.

(Crowley sits on the other side of the door, listening to Aziraphale puttering around the kitchen for a few minutes. Soon, there’s a clatter of cutlery, and Crowley waits with bated breath—and promptly claps his hands over his mouth in his surprise at the frankly _obscene_ noise Aziraphale makes when he begins eating.)

That night, Aziraphale almost works up the courage to knock on the closed door. His knuckles are only inches from the wood before he stops himself. He mustn’t interrupt Crowley’s vigil, not until he’s ready.

Aziraphale goes into his room and sits on the edge of his bed for a moment, so full from the delicious meal that he’s pleasantly drowsy. He looks up at the wall that separates his bedroom from Crowley’s. _Thank you,_ he says silently, and hopes somehow his gratitude manages to cross the divide between them.

—

One afternoon, Aziraphale comes home to find Crowley sitting hunched over at the dining table. This in itself is surprising—he rarely sees Crowley in this house they share. It’s odd to think that for all they live in such close confines, he sees Crowley much more often in the parish office than he does here. It seems to be a good sign.

Aziraphale clears his throat, stepping forward hopefully as Crowley’s head turns in his direction, the lenses of his sunglasses catching the glare of the sunlight spilling in through the window.

“Hello. It’s me.”

“I know it’s you, Father Fell.” There’s something like amusement hovering at the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “I am aware of who I live with, you know.”

“Y-yes. Of course.” Aziraphale casts about wildly for something to say. _Anything._ His eyes light on the kettle, and he seizes the opportunity gratefully. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

Crowley shakes his head. “I’m good.” He’s holding something in his hands—an apple, its cheek golden and faintly streaked with red, and a knife. “Could tempt you to a little snack if you like, though it wouldn’t go very well with your tea.”

Aziraphale smiles. “I’d be delighted.”

He sits at the table, waiting for the water to boil. Across from him, Crowley’s methodically peeling the apple, golden skin falling to the table in ribbons. He has lovely hands, Aziraphale realises. The calluses on his fingers do nothing to diminish their elegance in the slightest as he deftly turns the apple in his palm, the practised movement of the knife making short work of the rest of the peel.

“S’just an apple, angel.” Aziraphale’s gaze snaps up to Crowley’s face, and the heat rushes into his face when he sees how Crowley is smirking at him. “Don’t worry. I’m not the serpent of Eden.”

The kettle starts to whistle, much to Aziraphale’s relief, giving him an excuse to get up. He calms down somewhat at the ritual of making tea. There’s something inherently soothing about the scent of jasmine leaves steeping in the hot water. “Are you sure you won’t have any?”

“If you insist.” There’s a short pause. “I went for a walk.” There’s an odd tremor in Crowley’s voice. “That bakery nearby makes some pretty good blueberry muffins.”

Aziraphale takes a breath, decides to be brave. “Croissants, too.”

The last of the golden strips fall to the table, and Crowley looks up at Aziraphale over the rim of his sunglasses—for a split second, he catches a glimpse of Crowley’s mismatched eyes, and every time he sees them is a revelation—before Crowley ducks his head. “Croissants, right.” He clears his throat. “Anyway. Erm. Thought I’d ask if you wanted any. Y’know, just in case.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, comprehension dawning on him. “You brought some home?”

Crowley, unexpectedly, makes an odd sputtering noise. “H- _home—_ yeah, erm, seemed a shame not to.” He jerks his head at the kitchen counter, where Aziraphale notices for the first time that a brown paper bag is sitting unobtrusively next to the bread bin. “I’ll heat one up for you, if you want.”

Aziraphale can’t help it—he beams as Crowley stutters a little more, fumbling the apple and nearly dropping it. “I would love that.” He considers this for a moment. “But only if you eat with me.”

This request earns him a grimace. “Fine, fine,” Crowley grumbles, but Aziraphale fancies that it’s half in jest, and laughs.

“Thank you for indulging me,” he says, smiling at Crowley.

“S’nothing,” Crowley says, shrugging it off. He and Aziraphale move around the tiny kitchen in tandem, pouring hot water and heating muffins in the tiny oven, the fragrance of jasmine scenting the air. For some reason, this feels perfectly natural, as though Crowley had lived here with Aziraphale all his life, bickering about pastries and parish duties for afternoons on end.

For a moment, Aziraphale has the strange thought that he wouldn’t mind that at all.

He spends the rest of the afternoon watching Crowley across the table, taking note of the way his hands move in the air, the way he gesticulates and posits arguments—Aziraphale registers somewhere in the back of his mind that Crowley is intelligent beyond his greatest expectations, well-read and logical, and with a charisma Aziraphale could have no hope to match. His lips quirk into a rueful smile when he considers how delighted the congregation will be to finally have a priest capable of delivering a sermon that wouldn’t lull them to sleep.

When Aziraphale finishes his blueberry muffin (it’s delicious, as promised, warm and gooey and just this side of sweet), Crowley pushes his barely touched muffin across the table without a second thought, and something in Aziraphale’s chest swells at the offering. He watches as Crowley cuts up the apple into slices, and unthinkingly he reaches for the plate as Crowley hands it to him.

Their fingers brush lightly around its chipped edges.

Crowley makes no indication that he’s noticed anything untoward, but Aziraphale feels as though he’s been lit on fire, kindling where their fingers met, spreading up his arm and into his chest.

He takes a bite of apple, marvelling at its flavour—tart and sweet all at once, juice spreading over his tongue and flooding his mouth. Gold and red—he doesn’t know how he’ll ever be able to think of those colours separately from Crowley ever again. The way his mouth settles into a soft curve when he thinks Aziraphale isn’t looking. The way his posture relaxes into an unstudied slouch in the chair. The way he fits right here in this little house that Aziraphale has lived in for so long.

It occurs to Aziraphale that he perhaps shouldn’t be looking at Crowley like this. Taking stock of the soft lines around Crowley’s mouth, the dimple in his cheek that’s made a rare appearance, the sharp corner of his jaw.

But how could he not? His fingers are still burning where their skin had touched.

“Aziraphale,” he blurts out, as Crowley looks up, lips parted slightly in surprise. “Call me Aziraphale.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [LeilaKalomi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeilaKalomi/pseuds/LeilaKalomi) and [TawnyOwl95](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95) for the spectacular beta, and to [NaroMoreau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau) and [Jenanigans1207](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenanigans1207/pseuds/Jenanigans1207) for keeping me sane!!


	3. Holy Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
> 
> The sunglasses fall to the floor from Crowley’s fingers with a clatter.
> 
> He knows that voice.
> 
> “It has been… shall we say, over two decades since my last confession,” the voice continues, low and honey-sweet. A chill goes up Crowley’s spine, his breath caught tight in his chest. He looks down at his hands and clutches at his knees tightly, trying to still their trembling. “Twenty-eight years, to be precise. But you knew that already, didn’t you, Father?”

It takes some time, but Crowley’s finally starting to feel like there’s a place for him here.

Sloth has always been one of his greatest vices. In defiance, he makes it a point to be up first thing in the morning, except for those dreary cold days where he feels the chill down to his bones.

But spring has slipped into summer almost without him noticing it—today is a cool grey morning, and there’s a small patch of garden outside waiting to be weeded. Crowley had been delighted to discover that the rectory had a little backyard, enough for him to plant some vegetable seeds, a few flower bulbs. There’s nothing to show for it yet but a few tiny green sprouts poking out of the earth, but he assiduously waters and weeds and cares for that tiny plot every day—he’ll make it grow if it’s the last thing he does.

Crowley likes to do his morning prayers there, when he can. He feels them more in that little patch of green—the small budding things in the soil, the dew settling in pearls on the leaves, the joints in his hands slightly stiff from the cold. In the soft light of the dawn, there is no one but himself and God and the stillness that envelopes the garden.

He likes to take walks too, when he has the chance. He needs time to acquaint himself with his surroundings. It’s been so long since he has been anywhere but the seminary.

Mornings like this are when he misses his old life most. The hum of the seminary beginning to stir in the early hours, his brothers murmuring their morning prayers, the gentle ribbing over breakfast.

Here, there is only silence and solitude. But Crowley’s becoming accustomed to it.

The quiet isn’t so bad. He even likes it some days. On the days he gets up at daybreak, the world is silent enough that he even feels comfortable enough to sing, softly so only the plants hear him.

Slowly, so slowly, it’s begun feeling like home. He no longer lies awake half the night, preoccupied and anxious, unable to relax in such unfamiliar surroundings. He can call these things _his_ now, without it feeling strange on his tongue—his bedroom, his spot on the sofa where he can sit in the sun on chilly days, his red mug that Aziraphale had given him the week after he moved in. A housewarming present, Aziraphale had called it.

Crowley adds a teaspoon of sugar to his black coffee. He throws a guilty look at Aziraphale’s bedroom door (still firmly shut—he won’t be awake for a while), before adding another heaping teaspoonful while no one is watching him. The spoon clinks against the bright yellow lip of his red mug as he stirs and watches the steam curl into spirals in the air. He wonders what in the world had possessed Aziraphale to choose such absurd colours for him. He presses his lips together, holding back a smile.

He’s left enough hot water in the kettle for Aziraphale’s usual cup of tea. For a moment, he debates with himself whether he should throw something together for breakfast, but remembers there’s still half a loaf of bread left over from yesterday. He cuts a couple of slices and sticks them into the toaster. He’s learnt by now that Aziraphale is grumpy in the mornings if he hasn’t had anything to eat. At least, it’s the closest to grumpy Aziraphale ever gets—he maintains long, rather dour silences until someone from the parish staff interrupts his thoughts of breakfast. Best to be prepared, Crowley thinks, as he slices a tomato and the last of the cheese and arranges it on a plate for Aziraphale before he sets off for the parish office.

The parish is nowhere near the size of the seminary, but it’s busy and thriving, and Aziraphale had been overburdened with work before Crowley arrived. He’d gratefully turned over the management of the parish finances to Crowley after discovering that he had been doing the same for his seminary. Easy enough, seeing as he’d done it for so long—or so he’d thought before he saw the state of the parish’s financial statements.

(He’d looked over the rim of his sunglasses at Aziraphale, who’d stood in front of his desk wringing his hands.

“You see, numbers aren’t my strongest suit,” Aziraphale had said, clearly embarrassed.

“S’alright. Don’t worry about it.” Crowley had sifted through the first few folders Aziraphale had laid on his desk. There was _so much_ of it. He had bitten back a sigh. “I’ll sort it out, shall I? I’ll type up a report for you.”

“Oh. Oh, thank you.” Aziraphale had said it with such obvious relief and gratitude that Crowley had been torn between squirming with discomfort and asking if there was anything else Aziraphale needed him to help with. Anything at all.) 

But Crowley isn’t going to think about that now. By now, he’s very good at not thinking about things if he doesn’t have to. Easier to shove them all down, never let them see the light of day. He asks too many questions anyway.

He turns on the computer, polishes his sunglasses idly as he waits for the system to boot up. The pile of folders on his desk is significantly smaller, but there’s still a lot left to go through.

Crowley rubs at his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. He really needs to get his bad eye looked at soon. Maybe he’ll ask Aziraphale if there’s an ophthalmologist nearby. Or a GP who could give him a referral to a doctor who’d know about the sort of condition he has. He’d really rather not, but the past few weeks of alternating between combing through documents and staring at his computer screen have been taking their toll on his vision.

He puts his sunglasses back on just as the office door opens. To his relief, it’s only Aziraphale, clutching the tartan-patterned vacuum flask Crowley had bought him just a few days ago. It had been meant as a sly jab at Aziraphale and his old-fashioned tastes, but he had loved it the moment he’d opened the box.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley says, hastily pasting on the smirk he’d perfected for occasions like this, lest he smile too widely and allow Aziraphale a glimpse of how pleased Crowley secretly is to see him. “You’re up early. For once.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes as he sinks into the chair across Crowley’s desk. “Do shut up, dear boy.”

Crowley notices the two wrapped sandwiches Aziraphale is holding in his other hand and bites the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh, though something warm pools in his stomach to know that Aziraphale is eating the breakfast Crowley had set out for him earlier that morning.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

All Crowley gets for his courtesy is a disdainful look before Aziraphale hands him one of the sandwiches. “I already told you not to skip meals.”

“And _I_ already told you I’d be perfectly fine,” Crowley objects. Aziraphale doesn’t dignify this with a response. Crowley sighs and acquiesces, reaching over and taking the sandwich. It’s still warm. “You’re welcome, by the way,” he says, jerking his chin at the sandwich Aziraphale is still holding. “Enjoy your breakfast.”

Aziraphale snorts most inelegantly. Truly, he’s an entirely different creature in the mornings before he’s had anything to eat. “O ye of little faith. Try it first, why don’t you?”

Crowley unwraps the sandwich and resentfully takes a bite. His eyebrows lift involuntarily as he chews—salt from the butter seeping indulgently into the browned bread, melted cheese and tomato, the bright flavour of fresh basil. He looks up and sees Aziraphale surveying him with an expectant look on his face.

“Well?”

“S’good,” Crowley admits grudgingly.

Aziraphale beams, a light flush staining his cheeks as he unwraps his own sandwich. “Thank you,” he says smugly before taking a bite out of his own sandwich with one of those outrageously suggestive noises he always makes when he’s eating something he particularly enjoys.

It’s odd how dry Crowley’s mouth suddenly is—he has to clear his throat before he can speak. “Glad to see you’re _finally_ picking something up from all the hours I’ve spent slaving over the stove trying to teach you how to cook.”

“Yes, well. I’d say a student’s skill is a reflection of his teacher as much as it is of himself.”

Crowley gasps in mock offence, though he’s secretly delighted. No one sees Aziraphale like this but himself, he thinks, and allows himself a small smile. “You selfish, ungrateful—”

“Perhaps if you spent more time eating and less time talking,” Aziraphale advises him before he gets to his feet. “That sandwich won’t be as good when it’s cold.”

“Yeah, yeah. Stop nagging.” Crowley waves him off. “But, erm. Thanks.”

Aziraphale pauses at the door and throws Crowley a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. Crowley swallows, tries to ignore the way his heart stutters.

“That reminds me. Would you be so kind as to take care of confession duties later this afternoon?”

Crowley groans. “I see how it is,” he says, shaking the sandwich at Aziraphale accusingly. “This was a bribe, wasn’t it?”

“No, not at all.” Aziraphale eyes him thoughtfully. “But did it work?”

“Yes, alright,” Crowley says, sighing. “Fine. I’ll take care of it, my treat.”

“Oh, really?”

It should be made illegal, the way Aziraphale brightens when Crowley agrees to do anything for him. Crowley pinches himself, prays he isn’t blushing. “I still prefer the paperwork,” he retorts, but Aziraphale only laughs, his eyes twinkling at Crowley before the door shuts behind him.

Crowley takes a deep breath. He can see the dents in his arm, little crescent moons where his fingernails had dug into skin. He takes another bite of the sandwich. _Don_ _’t think about it_ , he tells himself firmly, tugging at his clerical collar, loosening it slightly before he directs his attention to the first folder on the top of the pile.

—

The plates from dinner have been washed and put away with only minimal squabbling tonight, and now there are two priests discussing the finer points of a sermon in their sitting room. Or perhaps to be more accurate, one priest pacing round and round, occasionally shaking the piece of paper he’s holding at the other priest, who’s sprawled on the sofa gesturing wildly in mid-air. The table in front of the two of them is covered in bottles.

“The point is,” Crowley says, “the point is.” He tries to focus on Aziraphale. “The point is,” he says again, and tries to think of a point. “The point I'm trying to make,” he says, brightening, “is the honey. That’s my point.”

“What about the honey?”

“Well, Samson took the honey out of the lion’s carcass. The lion he’d killed with his bare hands.”

“I know, dear boy,” Aziraphale says, half-exasperated, half-fond. “Life springing forth from death. We’ve discussed this. Several times now, as a matter of fact.”

“No, no, no,” Crowley says indignantly, straightening up somewhat and putting both feet on the ground for added emphasis. “You see, he went and took the honey and took it home to his parents.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, with the infinite patience he normally reserved for young minds who had yet to learn how to properly express their thoughts. “It says so in Scripture.”

“But the thing is,” Crowley says quickly before he loses his train of thought, “he didn’t tell them where the honey had come from—but _why_ would it be so important to hide that little fact? Because it was unclean,” he finishes triumphantly. “And so began his downfall.”

Aziraphale is silent for a few minutes, contemplating the notes Crowley had scribbled down on the piece of paper he’s holding. “Crowley,” he says, as though trying to sort his thoughts out, “that is… that is beside the point. We’re talking of the riddle. ‘Out of the eater, something to eat.’”

“‘Out of the strong, something sweet,’ yes,” Crowley finishes, flinging his sunglasses onto the table and scrubbing at his face. His eyes are starting to ache dreadfully this late at night.

“Something sweet would be nice,” Aziraphale murmurs, sinking down onto the sofa next to Crowley. “I can’t cope with this while I’m drunk.”

“S’all going to be fine. You’re going to stand there looking like an angel in front of everyone like you always do, delivering the word of the Lord,” Crowley says in what he hopes is a reassuring tone, though the way the words slur together on his wine-sodden tongue rather ruins the effect. Aziraphale glares at him, and he relents. “Still got a bit of that blueberry crumble left—do you want some?”

“Oh, yes, please,” Aziraphale says, beaming. “We’ve still got some ice cream left over too, I think.”

“Fine, fine.”

Crowley gets up and meanders into the tiny kitchen, pulling out the remnants of what had been an enormous blueberry crumble, and a tub of ice cream with just one last serving left at the very bottom, and takes both to the sitting room along with two spoons.

“Anyway,” Aziraphale says later, a good deal more cheerful after a few bites of crumble, “I shouldn’t touch on anything too controversial. You know how the archbishop will be.”

“Oh, _Gabriel,_ ” Crowley says, venom lacing his tone. “He’s far too narrow-minded—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says reprovingly, shoving a spoonful of ice cream into Crowley’s mouth to stop him from going any further. “You really shouldn’t be going around saying things like that,” he continues over Crowley’s yelps of surprise. “It’s one thing for you to be saying it here at home, but imagine if you accidentally said it aloud in the parish office and someone heard you?”

“You know I’m right, though,” Crowley retorts when he’s able to speak again, finally having recovered from the momentary brain freeze. “‘Sides, angel, we’re home now, aren’t we? I can say whatever I like.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale says, and there’s something a little odd about the way he’s smiling at Crowley with the lines around his eyes pinched just the slightest bit. He looks almost wistful, Crowley thinks, though he can’t imagine why.

“You alright?” Crowley asks when the silence stretches on a little too long. He tries not to think about the way Aziraphale is looking at him with that pensive look on his face—it’s making his heart do strange things in his chest. “Do you… do you want me to get some water?”

“That’s probably for the best,” Aziraphale sighs. “We should sober up.”

“Right,” Crowley says, and gets up to go to the kitchen a second time. But when he returns, two glasses of water in hand, Aziraphale has slumped against the arm of the sofa, his eyes closed, already snoring lightly.

For a long moment, Crowley stands there, trying to think of what to do through the haze of alcohol in his mind, but his thoughts seem to have gotten stuck on a broken-record run of _angel angel angel angel,_ because Aziraphale really does look like a sodding cherub with his flushed cheeks and light curls, softness and benevolence exuding from him at all times. Even in sleep, evidently. Finally, Crowley snaps out of it and sets the two glasses down on the table, kneeling on the floor at the angel’s feet.

“Aziraphale,” he says, gently shaking him awake. “Aziraphale, come on, let’s get you to bed.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale mumbles, “must I?”

“Yes,” Crowley says, helping Aziraphale sit up and drink some water. “You’ll thank me in the morning.”

“Wouldn’t have gotten drunk to begin with if it weren’t for you,” Aziraphale says morosely, rubbing at his eyes. 

“ _Au contraire,_ angel, most holy messenger of God,” Crowley teases, prodding Aziraphale’s arm, trying to keep him awake. “I seem to recall all these wine bottles are from _your_ wine storage.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Aziraphale says, allowing Crowley to pull his arm around his thin shoulders as they walk to his bedroom. “Didn’t realise how drunk I was getting. I got… got carried away.”

Crowley laughs. “M’drunk too, if that makes you feel any better.”

“I suppose it does,” Aziraphale says, sighing.

They’ve reached Aziraphale’s room, identical in shape and size to Crowley’s bedroom, with all the furniture arranged in an exact mirror image. A part of Crowley’s mind registers that their beds would be right next to each other if it were not for the wall dividing them, and, unable to process this information, promptly shuts down. He lowers Aziraphale down carefully on the thin mattress, and he sits there blinking up at Crowley. “Thank you, my dear.”

“Don’t thank me,” Crowley says gruffly. “I’ll, erm, get you some more water.”

He escapes from Aziraphale’s room, his heart pounding in his ears as he refills Aziraphale’s glass, drops of water cascading to the floor as a result of his trembling hands. When he returns, Aziraphale has simply lain down and gone to sleep, shoes and all.

With a sigh, Crowley sets the glass of water on the bedside table and sits down next to Aziraphale on the bed. He takes a deep breath, and begins unlacing Aziraphale’s shoes, loosening the laces until they slip off his feet. He’s wearing the tartan socks Crowley has mocked endlessly ever since he saw them hanging up to dry, and Crowley has to bite his lip to hold back the laugh. _Bloody old-fashioned angel,_ he thinks, bending over to put Aziraphale’s shoes down on the floor.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale murmurs drowsily.

“Mm?” He sits up and turns to look at Aziraphale, who’s managed to open one bleary eye to look at him.

“Sorry, I… I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” Aziraphale sighs.

“Nothing to apologise for,” Crowley says, gently undoing the buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt for him, slipping the white strip of his collar free. “I’d call that a productive meeting, really.”

“You would,” Aziraphale says, smiling as he pushes himself up. Crowley helps him tug his shirt off, but to his surprise, it drops unheeded to the floor from Aziraphale’s fingers as he wraps his arms around Crowley, burying his face in Crowley’s neck.

Crowley freezes, unable to process anything more than the scent of the laundry detergent they shared, layered with something warm and musky and distinctly _Aziraphale._ He hadn’t known until this very moment that he knows just what Aziraphale smells like, down to the shampoo he uses that smells distinctly of lavender, the dusty vanilla scent of old books that clings to him from his hours spent poring over the parish’s special collection of religious texts.

“Aziraphale,” he stutters out, his hands hovering in mid-air—he has no idea what to do with them. He’s had too much to drink. He tries to breathe evenly, but he feels as though he’s been set on fire. Each nerve is singing at the thought of Aziraphale so close to him, the thin white undershirt the only thing separating him from Aziraphale’s bare skin. Everything about it is so unbearably intimate, Crowley thinks deliriously—he can’t even remember the last time he’d been held like this.

 _You do,_ his mind supplies traitorously and drops a name into his lap without warning. _Luke._

He shoves that thought away with the force of a wrecking ball.

“Aziraphale,” he finally manages. “Are you alright?”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispers. His hair is so soft against Crowley’s skin. “I’m so… so glad you’re here,” he says, and there’s a long silence before Crowley is able to force something resembling coherent words out of his throat again.

“Told you not to thank me,” Crowley mumbles awkwardly, but Aziraphale murmurs something too soft to hear, nuzzling his cheek against Crowley’s jaw.

 _Now what?_ Crowley sighs—why is it always that he can never refuse Aziraphale anything he asks for? His arms snake around Aziraphale’s waist, holding him close. He hopes Aziraphale is too drunk to notice the hummingbird beat of his heart, pressed right against the warmth of Aziraphale’s palm.

—

It’s a warm and altogether entirely too humid sort of afternoon, and Crowley is sweltering in the confessional. He folds his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, exposing his forearms, taking some delight in the thought that the archbishop would most certainly have told him off for it. Something about looking presentable, or whatever nonsense it is he’s constantly spouting. Anyway, what’s the harm? It’s not like the confessors can see him.

The thing is, holding confession has always made him anxious. At the end of the afternoon, he’s ready to crawl out of his skin. Always, this has been the sacrament that has been the most alien to him, the one he is the most reluctant to administer—

(He knows it’s been decades. He knows he’s been forgiven. He’s done his penance and been granted absolution.

And yet.)

But today, he’s given in to Aziraphale’s cajoling to administer confession yet again. He figures it’s the least he can do, considering how hungover Aziraphale was this morning. He’d done his level best not to chuckle—

(“Stop _laughing_ at me, Crowley.”

“Lightweight. I’m older than you are, shouldn’t you still be processing alcohol better than I can?”

“Is that so, O Ancient One?” Aziraphale had retorted, pelting Crowley halfheartedly with a pillow. “Just for that, you can do confession today.”

“No,” Crowley had groaned, “s’not fair, I just took a turn—” But Aziraphale had given him one of those wide-eyed gazes of his, and Crowley had thrown up his hands and capitulated.

He always does.)

Crowley has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing aloud, right in the middle of someone’s act of contrition.

It’s hard for him not to simply go through the motions of the blessings and prayers when he’s sitting in the confessional. In its confined space, he feels almost trapped, the weight of all the sins pressing on him until he can barely breathe, no matter how many times he imparts absolution.

He gets a reprieve when the last confessor files out of the booth, leaving him in blessed silence. On a muggy afternoon like this, thankfully not many people choose to come by. Aziraphale owes him for this one, Crowley thinks with exasperation as he undoes the first few buttons of his shirt in a vain attempt to find relief from the oppressive heat.

But before he can take his collar off, the door to the confessional slides open once more, and another penitent takes a seat. Crowley sighs internally and pulls off his sunglasses, mopping at his damp temples with a handkerchief.

“Good afternoon,” he says automatically.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

The sunglasses fall to the floor from Crowley’s fingers with a clatter.

He _knows_ that voice.

“It has been… shall we say, over two decades since my last confession,” the voice continues, low and honey-sweet. A chill goes up Crowley’s spine, his breath caught tight in his chest. He looks down at his hands and clutches at his knees tightly, trying to still their trembling. “Twenty-eight years, to be precise. But you knew that already, didn’t you, Father?”

Crowley’s certain this can’t be real. This is a hallucination generated by the heat. Time is holding its breath, waiting for him to wake up. Perhaps if he steps out of the confessional now, he’ll find himself back in his bedroom in the rectory. The dream is shifting into a nightmare. _Wake up,_ he begs himself silently, _wake up._

“Father, don’t tell me you’ve fallen asleep.”

And that’s what does it—there’s no mistaking the sardonic tone, the sly humour just bordering on irreverence—and Crowley has to swallow hard before he can force the name out of his mouth.

“Luke?”

“Oh, _very_ good, darling,” Luke drawls from the other side of the booth, and it makes Crowley’s hairs stand on end to hear the old endearment roll off his tongue. “I’m so glad to know you haven’t forgotten me.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Come now, Anthony,” Luke says, his voice shifting into the condescending tone that’s still all too familiar to Crowley. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“How did you find me?” Crowley desperately wants to flee, to leave the confessional and never come back, to hide somewhere safe where Luke could never find him.

“I was expecting a much warmer welcome than this.” Luke’s voice is still light, but already sharpening around the edges, and every alarm bell in Crowley’s head is ringing loudly, screaming at him to run while he still can. “I’m sure there’s nothing wrong in wanting to… reconnect, is there?”

“I’m a priest now, Luke.”

“As I’m well aware,” Luke says, chuckling. “Do you really think I’d be here otherwise?”

“Look, whatever it is you’ve come here for—”

“Can’t I just have wanted to see you again?”

“I…” Crowley’s voice fails him. _You_ _’re a grown man,_ he scolds himself. He knows he has nothing to be afraid of anymore, but when he manages to speak again, he’s horrified at the way his voice has turned pleading, entirely of its own volition. “I’ve left all that behind me, alright? This is my life now.” He tries to keep his voice from shaking. “I think… I think you need to leave.”

“My, my, Father,” Luke muses, almost to himself. “Whatever would the bishops say if they found out that one of their priests kicked out a poor soul wanting to confess his sins? You wouldn’t deny me forgiveness, would you?”

“Please,” Crowley says, just a few inches away from begging now. “Just go.”

“I have been on the run from the law for nearly thirty years. I have lied and misrepresented myself, stolen things of unimaginable value, inflicted injury when the occasion called for it—oh, but I’ll spare you the grisly details, Father,” Luke says, and continues before Crowley can get a word in edgewise, as though he’s relishing the recitation of his transgressions. “Coerced, embezzled, perjured a couple of times, even. And many more sins that I can no longer recall. You see, Father, more than your absolution, what I really need is your help,” he says softly.

Crowley can barely breathe, already falling under the spell of the familiar rhythm of Luke and him. He pinches his bare arm as hard as he can, forcing himself to focus. “What do you want?”

“Nothing much,” Luke says lightly. “Nothing you can’t give me. And I’m sure you’ll be more than willing to do that for me, won’t you?”

“Luke, I—”

“Come here.”

Try as Crowley might, he can’t keep himself from getting to his feet. He grits his teeth as he pushes aside the curtain and exits his side of the confessional. Even after all these years, Luke’s voice still moves Crowley so easily. In Luke’s hands, he’s nothing but a puppet controlled by strings.

He stands before the confessor’s booth, trying to work up his nerve. He’s going to open the door, and he’s going to tell Luke to leave, and maybe he should tell someone about this, just as a precaution—

But the moment the door slides open and Crowley sees the man sitting there, still handsome despite the lines in his hardened face, all of Crowley’s resolve crumbles into dust.

“There you are, darling,” Luke says, getting to his feet with a smile. “I knew you’d come to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luke is sin on legs, is what we're trying to say here.
> 
> Thank you again to [LeilaKalomi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeilaKalomi/pseuds/LeilaKalomi) and [TawnyOwl95](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95) as always for being so generous with beta-ing this fic, and to [NaroMoreau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau) for holding my hand through all my struggles!

**Author's Note:**

> Nadzieja is [teslatherat](https://teslatherat.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, and hanap is contraststudies on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)!


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